Always the sun
by Rose de Sharon
Summary: Set after TGG: Sherlock ponders about how much his life has changed since John has become his flatmate. S/J friendship, bromance, no slash.
1. There's always the sun

**Always the sun**

By Rose de Sharon

**Disclaimer:** written for fun, not for money. Recognizable characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

**Author's notes:**

- There should be a law against evil cliff-hangers! Oh well, *sigh*, while waiting for "Sherlock" Season 2 we can always read fan-fictions! ;-)

- This story's title comes from the song by British group The Stranglers, from their 1986 album _"Dreamtime"_.

- Victor Trevor is a character mentioned in _"The Gloria Scott"_, Jefferson Hope is the name of the killer in _"A study in scarlet"_, both stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

* * *

**Chapter 1: There's always the sun**

The night had fallen hours ago and Baker Street was asleep, wrapped in a blanket of tranquillity. No cars were disturbing the peace with loud motor engines; no drunks were yelling or puking their guts on the sidewalks in a vain attempt to forget their woes. The winter sky was cloudless, letting a myriad of stars shine on the black velvet dome, and the silvery first quarter of the moon looked like a smile from the heavens.

All the habitants of Baker Street were enjoying a peaceful night... All but one: its most turbulent habitant, Sherlock Holmes.

The young man was staring at nothing, his full lips firmly pressed together. He was dressed in grey silk pyjamas and a deep blue bathrobe, as if he had wanted to settle down for the night but he was sitting straight in his bed, on top of the covers, his eyes as hard as stones. All his posture betrayed the tension within his body, and his mental clogs were turning furiously at the risk of giving him a colossal headache but, for the time being, Sherlock couldn't possibly care less about it. He was too furious at both the world and himself to do anything but mulling thoughts, over and over again, with the frenzy of a rat trapped inside a labyrinth and going crazy from disorientation. Even the silence of Baker Street grated on his nerves: it was quiet, calm, peaceful... God, wasn't it _hateful_, after what had happened a few weeks ago?

The Pool.

That goddamned swimming pool.

It was definitively an accursed place. In 1989, a schoolboy named Carl Powers had drowned in it, victim of a seizure provoked by deliberate poisoning.

Twenty-one years later, a man named John Watson had been forced to wear a bomb jacket while standing at the pool's side.

And in both cases, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes had been unable to bring the perpetrator of those crimes to justice.

The consulting detective gritted his teeth furiously and a flash of pure hate shone in his eyes. He had often been told their colour was "unnerving" (steel-grey, circled with blue) because they looked ice-like, enhancing Sherlock's reputation as a cold man and he had adopted this opinion freely: being invulnerable to emotions had allowed him to keep his powerful brains clear and always ready, gathering data more quickly and thus, solving mysteries at an incredible speed. Since his childhood, all what had mattered for him had been the criminal cases and his caring side had been buried deep down within him, under piles of files. Apart from his mother and his brother Mycroft, no one had ever seen Sherlock's soft side in public – not even Detective Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade, his unofficial supplier of cases – and it had suited him well. Better be a walking computer than one of those bumbling idiots of Scotland Yard, so entangled in their pettiness and rivalry they would recognize a criminal only if he bit them on the leg.

In the meantime, solving murders had been a great source of "food" for his permanently working brains, avoiding him to fall again into the trap of drugs that had almost killed him a few years ago. Not that he _liked_ using drugs, he was too aware of the ravages those substances did on their wretched victims, but alas it had been the only way for him – at the time – to escape from the ultimate boredom that was rotting his massive intellect. Lestrade had found him after a drug bust and, amazed by the deductions the young man had made about him in less than a minute, simply by "reading" the D.I.'s crumpled suit and mud-caked shoes, he had decided to ask Sherlock's input every time a strange case would occur. Discreetly at first, since Scotland Yard frowned upon asking for private detectives' advice, and then more and more frequently, in spite of the general disapprobation of Lestrade's subordinates. After all, Sherlock never asked to be paid for his deductions and, as long as there wasn't any paperwork involved, Lestrade had been content with gaining important clues that had helped him to catch criminals in record time, even if it meant having to endure the detective's tedious lack in social skills.

The young man had settled for an existence of solitude and puzzles, the only way to live with a personality like his. Touching no-one and with nobody touching him, his life had been filed only with cases, cases and more cases, barely taking the time to archive them in his former, cluttered, too-small flat. People slandering him, the harsh nicknames said to his face – in the lines of _"Freak", "Iceman", "Heartless bastard"_ - nothing had mattered, for he was a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath focused only on work.

Sherlock had often thought his life was similar to his appearance: ice with his clear eyes and pale features, and dark like his raven-wings hair. He was an ice-covered planet circling around the sombre star of crime, with nothing to make it leave its orbit; only a few meteors had crossed his jet-black sky (Mummy, Victor Trevor – the only valuable acquaintance he had made at the university –, Mrs. Hudson his new landlady) but their lights had been too small to even try and warm up his cold universe.

But all of a sudden... The sun had appeared.

And Sherlock's world had been lit, changed forever.

The young man swung his long legs over his bed and stood up. The injuries he had sustained from the explosion at the pool had been reduced to a dull ache, thanks to the medications he had taken for two weeks now. The doctors at the hospital had told him many times how lucky he had been to have survived such a violent blast with only cuts and bruises all over his body, a burned hand and the beginning of a bacterial pneumonia - apparently, the pool's water had been low on chlorine. But the worse had been their strict orders to rest for a month, confining the world's unique consulting detective to his address at 221 B, Baker Street. The simple mention of staying home had infuriated Sherlock and it had needed the joined efforts of Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to make him obey such an absurd notion. Mycroft's so-called worry about him, Lestrade swearing there weren't any interesting cases recently, Mrs. Hudson's constant fussing, all this wouldn't have been enough to keep the young man in. But those three had played a dirty trick.

They had mentioned the sun needing him.

Thus, Sherlock Holmes had stayed home.

The detective sighed heavily while running his fingers through his thick, dark curly hair. It was about two o'clock in the morning and he hadn't slept a wink. Not that it mattered really, he had often said that sleeping was boring but at least, it had its utility: it was a good way to make time pass quicker. But right now, he couldn't do anything apart from re-thinking about the pool and its disastrous end. He had experienced failures in the past but this was the hardest blow of his career. How in the world had he been so stupid? He was supposed to be a genius, for God's sake, and he had fallen headlong into a trap!

Out of the blue, a song started playing inside his brilliant brains:

_How many times have you woken up and prayed for the rain?_

_How many times have you seen the papers apportion the blame?_

Ah, the Stranglers. A British group founded in 1974 and still active – a rarity in the world of rock music. Sherlock was just a kid when this song was released and even though he hadn't been interested in the least by the whole "Top of the Pops" business during his teenage years, an attitude that had angered his classmates, but he had never forgotten this tune.

Indeed, Sherlock would have prayed for rain: counting the droplets on a window pane was also a way to pass the time. The morning papers weren't even printed yet. And his right arm – the one who had held a gun against his nemesis – wasn't completely healed, thus preventing him to play music on his beloved Stradivarius violin. Injuries, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson... Were they in a conspiracy to prevent him from working?

_Who gets to say, who gets to work and who gets to play?_

Annoyed by this intrusion in his mind, the younger Holmes tried to shut down the music by thinking about the millionth time about the Pool Disaster. A criminal mastermind had played an infernal game of wits with Sherlock, a game involving terrified hostages wearing Semtex-laden vests, Greenwich pips, laconic messages and a chronometer. Three times, Sherlock had successfully managed to solve the riddles, thus saving the hostages' lives (a woman, a young man and a little boy) while retrieving a memory stick containing the top-secret Bruce-Partington missile plans for his spy brother on the sideline. On the fourth time, alas, the hostage had been executed – a blind old lady who had started to describe her aggressor's voice and a sniper had killed her on the spot.

_I was always told at school, everybody should get the same. _

Angered and resolute to put a definitive end to this horror, Sherlock had defied the puppet-master to collect the memory stick at the same pool where Carl Powers had drowned. He had been so sure it would work: he had both the perfect bait and a Browning L9A1 in his pockets, and he knew his enemy wouldn't resist the challenge. Sherlock had been resolute to stop the murderer and he hadn't given a damn about accomplices – unlike the victims, he wouldn't have remained a sitting duck during the confrontation.

But Sherlock's plan had all gone to Hell, because the fifth hostage had been the sun.

His sharp ears perceived a soft murmur, coming from the upstairs bedroom. Instantly alarmed, Sherlock climbed the stairs to investigate what was the matter. In his mind's radio, the Stranglers kept on playing:

_How many times have you been told, if you don't ask you don't get?_

_How many liars have taken your money, your mother said you shouldn't bet?_

"Shut up, Hugh Cornwell!" grumbled Sherlock, even though he knew it was futile to curse the Stranglers' former lead vocalist.

His long strides transported him quickly and he reached the room's door, which had been left ajar. It wasn't the first time he would go up and take a peek inside the upstairs' bedroom; just to be sure everything was all right. During his forced convalescence, Sherlock had stood a lonely vigil at nights, staying awake in case revengeful intruders would invade 221 B Baker Street and attack its lodgers. It was a ridiculous idea, since he knew he was under constant surveillance by Mycroft's CCTV cameras and Lestrade's men, but the detective couldn't bring himself to lay down his guard – not for a minute, not after what had happened. There was a priceless treasure under Mrs. Hudson's roof and Sherlock had almost lost it by overconfidence, a mistake he wouldn't repeat again.

The sun had emerged in Sherlock's life, changing his universe forever so the least he could do was to watch over the sun, day and night.

The detective would have laughed at this statement a few months ago, since he was a loner with more arrogance than all the City boys of London and more brains than the Royal College of Sciences' alumni put together. People usually avoided him, as he acted too strange, too bizarre (_"Too freakish"_) to blend in the everyday life; Sherlock, from his part, considered normal people as being dull and boorish, finding them much more interesting dead than alive. But then he had encountered an exception to this rule; a living, breathing, _sunny_ exception which had barged into his life simply by pushing a laboratory's door at St. Bartholomew's hospital, where the detective was working on an analysis.

This memory made Sherlock apply a brief pressure with his hand on the wood panel of the bedroom's door, making it open wider. Only a dim light coming from the street illuminated the room, and yet Sherlock's keen eyes had no trouble discerning the contours of the furniture. Unlike the rest of the flat, this bedroom was tidy. The books – mostly about medicine, classic literature and a few bestsellers novels thrown in for good measure – were in perfect order on the shelves. The small desk supported only a laptop computer, a cell phone plugged on its charger and a Royal Army Medical Corps mug used as a pencil tin. Clothes had been folded on a chair, ready for the morning and the walls were decorated with framed photos. This room was too neat and clean for Sherlock's tastes, but since it wasn't his it didn't matter. It was John's.

John Watson. Retired Army Doctor, war hero, flatmate, colleague... And, most important of all, _friend_.

The only real friend Sherlock had made in his entire life.

John Watson... Sherlock's sun.

The door opened completely and he looked at the huddled mass under the covers. John was blissfully asleep between earth-toned sheets, unaware of the tension plaguing the detective, and for that Sherlock was grateful. No need to disturb his flatmate's slumber with his problems since John already had his full share of them recently, far too much actually.

For years, Sherlock had carefully cultivated his power to see in the dark. It took less than ten seconds for his eyes to adjust and focus on John's face. Regular breathing, relaxed features, tiny movements under the closed lids... Apparently, his friend was dreaming so what had been the cause of the murmur he had heard earlier?

_Who has the fun, is it always the man with the gun?_

Sherlock's lips pressed again one another tightly, as this line from the Stranglers' song reminded him too much of Moriarty and his would-be superior attitude.

James Moriarty, his archenemy, the puppet-master who had organized this horrible game of hide-and-seek involving press-ganged suicide bombers. A woman, a man, an old lady, a little boy... Those poor persons had been picked up at random, but not for the last hostage: he had been chosen because of his direct connection with Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty had kidnapped John, forced him to wear a bomb jacket, and then had sent him to the pool where Sherlock had set up his trap, just before revealing himself as being the one responsible for the bombs and the murder of Carl Powers. Moriarty had sniggered about not liking to dirty his hands, thus the reason why he employed minions aiming red laser-sight rifles at both Sherlock and John. The world's only consulting detective had then sworn to destroy Moriarty but the criminal had sneered he would kill Sherlock first, starting by _"burning the heart out of him"_. The younger Holmes had tried to brush off this threat by affirming he didn't have a heart, but Moriarty knew better.

_Someone must have told him, if you work too hard you could sweat, _whispered the Stranglers in Sherlock's brains.

John, still deep in his dreams, slightly shifted his head on the pillows, giving Sherlock a better look at his face. The doctor had suffered injuries from the explosion as well and he was sporting butterfly bandages over his cut eyebrows' arch, a cast on his right wrist and the blankets were hiding the multiple cuts his body was sporting, not to forget a bruised kidney after Moriarty's men had punched him in the back during his kidnapping – a simple, efficient way to subdue reluctant victims. John had tried to laugh at his wounds, stating they would simply add new scars to the ones he had earned in Afghanistan, but Sherlock hadn't say a word during this attempt of humour. He appreciated the fact that John was trying to reassure him, alas lame jokes weren't to his liking. In fact, he still had trouble realizing the fact they were both still living and breathing had been entirely due to his flatmate's quick thinking and even quicker acting.

_There's always the sun._

_Mmm, there's always the sun._

Sherlock had been resolute to put an end to Moriarty's actions, and the only available mean at the time had been to fire a bullet at the bomb-vest lying nearby the swimming pool after John had been released from it. Moriarty would be torn to shreds – but the violence of the deflagration would very likely kill the formidable duo also, not to forget snipers shooting at them in retribution for their leader's death. And yet, Sherlock hadn't hesitated for a second, not after receiving an approving nod from John.

He had fired.

The bomb-vest had exploded.

And, at the same second, the detective had found himself plunged into the water: John had tackled him in a swift rugby-like movement and they had both fallen into the pool.

_Always, always, always the sun._

They had drown in a maelstrom of bubbles, the temperature of the liquid heightening at a dramatic pace while the shockwave of the explosion destroyed the room; the walls, the ceiling collapsed in a roaring fury of flames and falling debris. The lazy pool waters changed into a mad tsunami in less than a second. Sherlock had also seen tiny missiles zooming past him – bullets shot by the snipers, slowed down by the H2O, making it easier to dodge. Still, those bullets presented a terrible risk and the detective had felt panic invading his heart at the sight of John floating weightlessly, in slow motion, towards the dangerous surface, making him look like a lost angel in an apocalyptic sky.

Sherlock had grabbed John in an iron-like grip, making him dive back to the safety of the pool's bottom (not deep enough, alas, they had fallen into the shallow end) before swimming underwater as long as they could, in spite of the terrible feeling of being boiled alive. Then, Sherlock had gotten a hold on the red-hot pool's ladder and had hauled John upwards in spite of the scalding pain in his hand. Panting, coughing, dizzy from the shock, the two men had barely the time to get out of the smoke-filled pool, their movements slowed down by the waterlogged clothing. Sherlock had pulled John out of the room before another blast had blown the revolving doors out of their hinges, knocking them both to the ground. The last thing the younger Holmes remembered was shielding his friend's body with his own before everything had gone black.

The doors' weight had crushed them but, at the same time, they had also protected Sherlock and John from flames and debris. When Lestrade had finally managed to enter the destroyed building, the firemen had told him that, if for not this impromptu protection, the two men wouldn't have gotten out of the blast alive.

"Huhn," whispered John, his brow furrowing. Sherlock's pale eyes locked on the sleeping man, fearing another bad dream was plaguing the doctor's mind. Since John had moved in, his war dreams had recessed but they hadn't fully disappeared. Images of dying soldiers, civilians, chaos, blood and pain would haunt him for the rest of his life but since he had associated himself with Sherlock and his murder cases, John had paradoxically found a new sense in life.

_There's always the sun, _

_Mmm, there's always the sun._

Sherlock would always remember the first time he had met John Watson, when the man had followed Dr. Michael Stamford in the laboratory. Holmes' laser-like sight had spotted a multitude of details in less than a second about this short, limping stranger, sending an important amount of data to his brains:

- Blond hair cut short, attentive dark blue eyes, standing-to-attention posture and neat clothing: military training.

- Tanned face, no tan above the wrists: the man went abroad but not for a holiday.

- His exclamation: _"Ah, bit different from my day"_ when he had entered the lab, said trained at Bart's: a medical doctor.

- A bad limp when walking, but no demands for a chair when standing up: partly psychosomatic limp, meaning an injury in traumatic circumstances.

- Tan + military + medical doctor + traumatic injuries = went to war zones.

- Conclusion: army doctor recently invalidated home from Afghanistan or Iraq; decorated war hero, small pension, London life expensive: financial distress.

Mike Stamford had found someone desperate enough to accept sharing a rent with the difficult detective, which was a small miracle in itself. Then, Sherlock had tried an experience: giving the excuse of needing to send a text urgently, he had asked for Mike's phone while perfectly knowing the jovial, round-bellied man always kept it in his coat's pocket. As on cue, the stranger had offered to use his own phone while Mike introduced him as _"An old friend of mine, John Watson"_. The loan, plus the revelation of the name, had given Sherlock another load of data:

- Phone: expensive model, barely six months old, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, and yet not John Watson's. Engraving at the back: _"Harry Watson, from Clara, XXX"_.

- A wealthy relative gave Watson his old phone, and yet he won't ask said wealthy relative for assistance: disagreements between them. A drinking problem, too: Harry, the previous owner of this phone, had shaking hands, betrayed by tiny scuffs visible around the power socket; hard to recharge a phone while too drunk to plug the socket in correctly.

- Phone's model too elaborated for a senior: Harry could be a cousin, but the doctor didn't strike him as having an extended family willing to help a war hero out with lodgings or money. Most probably a brother.

- Harry had a wife (Clara) but he recently walked out on her (got rid of Clara's present by giving it to his brother in a hypocritical gesture of concern): intelligent but spoiled character, throwing away his talents with booze. Careless, too: tell-tales scratches on the luxury phone revealed it had been kept in the same pocket with coins or keys.

- So: Doctor Watson was broke, lonely, recovering from terrible war experiences and with a troublesome family.

While typing his text, Sherlock had nonchalantly asked his potential flatmate: _"Afghanistan or Iraq?"_ as an introduction. Before Watson could had a chance to bombard him with questions, Sherlock had settled their next appointment together at 7:00 p.m. next evening for a glimpse of the apartment he had on sight, a prime spot in the heart of London. The doctor, utterly floored by Holmes' take-charge attitude, had objected they didn't know a thing about each other. Sherlock had given his first conclusions about Watson's military career and family life, his name (_"Sherlock Holmes"_), their future address (221 B, Baker Street) and he had winked at Doctor Watson just before dashing off. As the laboratory's door closed behind him, Sherlock had gathered a few extra data:

- Watson had endured Sherlock's brusqueness, even though he had been obviously taken aback by his attitude: polite.

- In spite of past and present hardships, there wasn't a hint of bitterness in his voice: courageous.

- Offered the use of his phone, even if money was an issue: generous.

- He had voiced his opinion about the lack of information: can stand his ground.

- No angry, fearful or outraged reactions at the wink: open-minded.

- All in one: John had a glowing personality gifted with patience (medical practice), quick adaptation (army) and curiosity (he wanted to know more about the detective).

That last point had attracted Sherlock's attention towards John; the younger Holmes would usually get insults or nervous laughter after he had "read" personal details on other people's clothing or bearings. But Doctor Watson had wanted to know more about those mind-blowing methods of deduction and it had been a long time, indeed, since the detective had gotten a participating audience. Truth to be told, Sherlock had never had one so he wasn't keen on losing it!

So John had passed through the doorway of 221 B Baker Street, and it had felt like a ray of sunshine entering the already cluttered flat on the first floor. Sherlock hadn't showed it but the doctor's kindness had been an extraordinary event in his life. John's aura was similar of a springtime sun, warming the earth slowly but efficiently: no matter how much the frost wanted to stay, it stood no chance against this gentle star igniting the rebirth of Nature. John had then been caught in a whirlwind of events – meeting Mrs. Hudson, being involved in the serial suicides case which were in truth murders, confronting Mycroft Holmes, curing his psychosomatic limp by running after a cab – without blinking an eye, and it had culminated in the former army doctor killing Jefferson Hope, the cabbie turned serial killer, to save Sherlock's life.

_Always, always, always the sun._

Sherlock hadn't known at first who the shooter was; he had been too angry at the dying cabbie by his refusal to give away that diabolical "sponsor" of his, who apparently was also a fan of the detective. It had taken a bit of cruelty to get this name, but in the end Hope had screamed it (_"Moriarty!"_) before passing away. Afterwards, when Lestrade was questioning him about his confrontation with the cabbie, Sherlock had started to give his deductions about the mysterious shooter: crack shot, a fighter, military past, strong moral principles and nerves of steel… Just before realizing those clues were making a perfect description of John! One look at the doctor calmly waiting behind the police line had confirmed his theory in a flash, as John looked like the sun coming out of a thick fog. Then the younger Holmes had rambled nonsense about being in shock, praying Lestrade for the first time in his life to not pay any attention to what he was saying. The DI had relented to let them go but Sherlock was positive he had heard him quietly chuckling in the background; maybe Lestrade was more perceptive than he looked!

TBC…


	2. Mmm, there's always the sun

**Disclaimer:** same as chapter 1.

**Author's notes:**

- Sorry for the lack of updates... I was in a relationship with a guy but he soon turned out to be a big fat waste of my time!

- The idea of John sending a silent Morse message to Sherlock by blinking his eyes during the pool confrontation is of my own creation.

- The rod of Asclepius is the symbol of the Greek god of medicine. Later, it became the symbol of medical professions (from Wikipedia).

* * *

**Chapter 2: Mmm, there's always the sun**

Another low wail escaped from John's lips and his head went back and forth against the pillow. Yes, the dream had definitively taken a nasty turn. Concerned, Sherlock walked towards the bed with the intention of waking up his flatmate but the doctor suddenly stilled, as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock sighed, and then he quietly sat on the edge of the bed. John was entitled to have bad dreams, after that ugly business with Moriarty and he couldn't help but feel responsible for his friend's predicament: the bomber had clearly implied his unhealthy interest towards Sherlock. God, how could he have missed this clue? On the very first call, the bomber – via the voice of a crying woman – had called Sherlock _"__Sexy__"_. The second time – through the sobs of a young student – he had confessed his boredom, so similar to the detective's. On the third – by the trembling voice of an elderly woman – he had told about his amusement watching Sherlock running through London to solve deadly riddles. And then, the bomber had gone silent – apart from forcing a terrorized little boy to count from ten to one, giving the younger Holmes time to find the missing Bruce-Partington plans for his lazy brother.

_How many times have the weathermen told you stories that made you laugh?_

_Y'know it's not unlike the politicians and leaders, when they do things by half._

Politicians and leaders may do things by half according to Hugh Cornwell, but certainly not Moriarty. During the confrontation at the swimming pool, the wretched man had showed his true colours: an arrogant cold-blooded murderer both annoyed and amused by Sherlock's cleverness. He would have loved to play the deadly game some more but Moriarty was the leader of an organization – an empire of crime – and he couldn't risk the safety of his plans on a whim. So Moriarty had grabbed John just to make a point: _"__Stop interfering in my business or I will hit right where it hurts__"__._

And it had hurt. Moriarty would never know the amount of pain Sherlock had felt after seeing John showing up at that pool, acting as if he had been the mastermind behind those bombings all along. John, mocking his flatmate's intelligence, taunting about such a twist in the situation would never have been imagined by the world's only consulting detective... Sherlock remembered too vividly the blood draining from his face as the word _"__**BETRAYED**__"_ had burned inside his brains with the violence of a red-hot iron. And then, his clever clogs had turned on full force, making him realize that:

A) John was wearing a bulky winter jacket that he hadn't had on when he left the flat.

B) John was talking with a mechanical voice like he had wanted to imitate a robot.

C) John's eyes were blinking furiously.

D) John would never, ever betray anyone, not in a million years, and certainly not someone he considered a friend.

The conclusion came in a flash: John had been **coerced** to wear this jacket, to talk like this, and the blinking of his eyelids was actually a silent message... in Morse alphabet.

Three short blinks: "S"; three longer ones: "O"; three short blinks again: "S". _S-O-S_.

Sherlock's brief fear of betrayal had instantly been replaced by righteous anger, which had increased until it had reached the stratosphere after John had opened the bulky jacket, revealing packets of Semtex tied around his waist. Moriarty had then showed up, dressed to the nines and nonchalantly boasting with his singsong voice about his consulting criminal career. Sherlock had wanted to tear the man from limb to limb. Moriarty had captured the _light of his life_!

_Who gets the job, of pushing the knob?_

_That sort of responsibility you draw straws for, if you're mad enough._

Moriarty had pushed Sherlock's buttons, and it had ended with an explosion.

"N... No...," whimpered John. Tears were escaping from the corner of his eyes; he had grabbed handfuls of earth-toned bed sheets, threatening to tear the linen with a force equivalent to the one Sherlock had wished to employ on Moriarty. The hem of the doctor's white T-shirt was damp, John's breathing had become too rapid and the detective had had enough. He placed his hand on the sleeping man's shoulder, shook it lightly.

"John, wake up."

"N... No... Sher-lock...," muttered John. It made the detective's heart twist inside his chest in a strange way: his friend was having a nightmare involving him?

"John, you need to wake up now. Please, wake up!"

Sherlock shook the shoulder a bit stronger, but there was still not reaction from the doctor; it was as if the poor man was trapped inside the labyrinth of his dream, desperately searching for an exit that had ceased to exist. The younger Holmes was considering going downstairs, grab his violin and play a melody that would appease his friend's disturbed slumber, but all of a sudden John bolted upright in his bed, his arms extended outwards and screaming at the top of his voice: **"****NOOOOOOOOOO!****"**

"John!"

Sherlock grabbed the shorter man and held him firmly, afraid his distressed friend might hurt himself or even fall out of bed. Battlefield reflexes kicked in and John struggled against the embrace with all his might, but to no avail: wiry as he was, the detective had large resources of nervous energy added to genuine concern about his sun's well-being. He started murmuring calming words at John's ear without relinquishing his hold, telling over and over again that the doctor was safe, they were at the flat, nothing threatened them, they were secure within Mrs. Hudson's household, their home and everything was all right; after a few minutes, John's body started to relax and the furious fight ended as quickly as it had started.

"S-Sherlock?"

"Yes, it's me. Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes..."

In fact, John had a difficult time to gather his thoughts. One minute he was lost in a terrifying dream and the next he was held against Sherlock, who was... rocking him gently.

For an outside observer this caring would have looked absurd but John couldn't possibly care less. He had lived too many traumatic events to look down at fraternity shown between two grown-up men; he knew it was a precious and rare thing. Besides, the soothing movement was much welcome to calm down his pounding heart and his shallow breathing, not to mention the sweat still running down from his forehead. A long moment passed before he could actually realize he was indeed in 221B Baker Street and not in the middle of the desert.

The younger Holmes waited until he was sure his friend was truly awake, and then he asked: "Do you think I can release you without risking a punch on the nose? I'd hate it if my handsome nostrils were damaged by the training of G.I. John".

Sherlock smiled after hearing John's giggles resounding against his chest. It felt as if his friend's laughter went straight to his own heart – an organ neglected for years – and made it pump blood more freely, almost joyfully. No wonder Moriarty was insanely jealous of the friendship between the detective and the doctor: it was special, the kind that happened only once in a century. Moriarty had mocked John by comparing him to a _"__touchingly loyal pet__"_ but the crime-master with the oversized ego was nothing compared to Sherlock's only ray of light.

Finally, John nodded and the younger Holmes slightly relinquished his hold; indeed, his flatmate seemed to be better after a firm hug and a little joke, making Sherlock unabashedly proud: John could quickly recover from any stressful situation!

"I woke you up, Sherlock? I-I'm sorry..."

"Don't you worry about it, I wasn't asleep. I was thinking about… Well, all kind of things and then I heard you moaning. I figured a nightmare was on the way so it was better to go take a look; I didn't want you to knock down things around – Mrs. Hudson would blame me for the mess!"

A gentle smile graced John's lips, telling he wasn't buying his friend's attempt to appear more concerned by the furniture than to his state of mind. He knew Sherlock was far more human than he wanted to show the world, and John would smile every time his flatmate would get frustrated by the absence of cases, or by an experiment involving human body parts had made the microwave oven explode. Inexorably, Sherlock's anger would melt (like ice under the heat), making him act almost tolerable again. The detective would have resented this disarmament of his trademark sociopath tendencies but John had adamantly stated this diagnosis was erroneous: his friend was asocial, but certainly not a sociopath and no amount of rudeness would make him change his mind.

Sherlock had found this fact fascinating: how come an ordinary-looking, average-intelligent and soft-spoken man could read him so well? No one, not even the battalion of expensive psychiatrists hired by his parents, had ever managed to unveil the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes and John had done it in a snap!

"_But average intelligence doesn__'__t mean stupid__"__, _thought a frowning Sherlock._"__John may not be a genius but he is a conductor of light: he is channelling my hunger for crime-solving by keeping me grounded and I cannot thank him enough for this. Otherwise, I would still be this sociopath shouting his deductions in the middle of the desert. People have been avoiding me at all costs for years, except John: he has this natural empathy that allows him to see much farther than the common idiots inhabiting the planet.__"_

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"You can release me now, I'm fine."

The younger Holmes then realized he was still holding his friend and he ended the embrace, suddenly embarrassed at the thought John would compare his actions to those of a psychiatric hospital attendant?

"Er, sorry about that, I was lost in my thoughts again…"

"You are always thinking, Sherlock, and that's what makes you unique."

"Maybe but my vast intellect makes me perceive that you are not feeling comfortable in your bed for the moment."

John could hardly say otherwise: the sheets and covers were in total disarray, his T-shirt clung to his sweat-covered torso and his voice was hoarse from the screaming: the once-tidy bedroom certainly hosted an agitated tenant! Sherlock got up, walked towards the cupboard and rummaged inside it before pulling out a clean T-shirt – dark green, probably an old Army-issued one – while taking a mental note to buy new shirts for his friend the next time he would do some Internet shopping. Then Sherlock handed out the garment to John, who accepted it gratefully.

"Why don't you change while I get you a drink of water? Your throat must be aching."

"That would be great, thanks," said John with another smile – the glowing one, which could illuminate even the gloomiest day. The detective quickly headed downstairs to collect a reasonably clean glass in the kitchen.

_There's always the sun._

_Mmm, There's always the sun._

While filling the glass with tap water, Sherlock grinned as he pictured in his mind the look on his brother's face if he had caught him doing something so domestic: the lenses of Mycroft's spying cameras would probably crack out of shock. Well, it would teach him a lesson: the elder Holmes was overconfident and he too often thought any problem could be solved with threats, money or a bullet. Psychiatrists would have a field day trying to analyze Mycroft!

Sherlock ripped a few paper towels from the roll on the counter before he climbed up the stairs and went back to John's room; the doctor had indeed changed into the clean T-shirt and he was trying to straighten the bedding, but the wrist cast made his movements clumsy. Sherlock presented him the glass of water and, while John was gratefully gulping down the liquid, the tall detective quickly rearranged the sheets and covers before his flatmate had the time to protest. Then he grabbed the paper towels and dried up John's hair and forehead.

"Sherlock, what are you…?"

"Hush," was the laconic answer. Knowing it was useless to argue, John let his friend wipe away the drops of sweat running down his face – amongst with a few tear tracks. Only when he was satisfied did Sherlock put away the paper towels and John was finally allowed to relax against his recently fluffed pillow.

The detective casually sat on the edge of the bed, neatly arranging the folds of his bathrobe like a king would do to his ermine-trimmed cloak before resting on his throne, and then he asked:

"Feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You're welcome. Considering the screams, it must have been quite a dream. Do you want to talk about it?"

John sighed, and then he shook his head: "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't. It was about Afghanistan and I am not allowed to talk to anyone about what happened there…"

"Honestly, did you think a menial thing such as Army classified information could escape my spying brother's inquisitiveness?"

John's dark blue eyes widened at those words: "What? You mean… Mycroft has access to my file at the Ministry of Defence?"

"I've told you once that Mycroft is the British government all by himself, and also the British Secret Services and the CIA on his spare time, remember? It was right after the cabbie serial killer case, when he showed up with his ridiculous iPhone-obsessed PA. Well, after we walked home that night, Mycroft realized you weren't going to rat on me or pack your bags anytime soon, so he figured a thorough investigation of your past was in order. He couldn't resist showing me a copy of the file of RAMC Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland fusiliers, precisely on the day you were out of the flat for some paperwork about your pension."

"Holy God, but why did he do that?"

"Mycroft used his usual excuse, namely his concern for me, to make sure my future flatmate wasn't a psychopath in disguise. But the truth is, he just wanted to brag about his efficiency in front of his baby brother."

John inwardly cursed Mycroft Holmes to a very long stay in Hell.

"So, did you like what you read?"

"Actually, the only thing that interested me was your education but I was disappointed: the file contained a long list of your impressive medical skills, unfortunately you had already told me all about them. Therefore, no new data could be collected about that subject."

"Oh, shame," answered a sarcastic doctor.

"I closed the file and handed it back to Mycroft, asking him to come back only when he would have something new to tell me, but he insisted that I should read the documents about your career at the Royal Army Medical Corps."

"And, did you?"

"No. I knew you would tell me about your army experience sooner or later – confidentiality be damned – and also, you trust my discretion as much as I trust yours. So I told Mycroft to get lost, and to not address this matter again. The pompous idiot has forgotten one detail: you and I are friends, and we help one another in time of need, including during nightmares. My brother can't comprehend this because he is incapable to confide to anyone."

"Not even to you?"

"Especially not to me!"

A long silence followed Sherlock's words, and John pondered about this revelation; he knew the Holmes were at odds but, after the Bruce-Partington inquiry, he thought the brothers had finally reached a common ground – Mycroft asking Sherlock to do the legwork on cases, feeding his younger sibling's craving for mysteries at the same time – but he hadn't imagined they would be arguing over his military past.

"I'm sorry you had an argument with your brother about me."

"Bah, Mycroft has never learned to mind his own business. I had deduced the main lines of your experience in Afghanistan the day we first met, and I absolutely don't need his poking around to get confirmation about your medical talents, your fighting abilities and your sense of honour. I had kind of hoped our inquiries would keep your nightmares at bay, though, because you haven't had a rough night for two months now, but I suppose our recent business with Moriarty may have triggered some bad souvenirs, yes?" asked Sherlock with a hint of worry in his voice.

John was left speechless for a moment, stunned by the facts that his flatmate had been keeping a record of his dream-free nights but also because he had openly talked about their nemesis. Sherlock had refused to utter a word about Moriarty after the hospital had released them under strict conditions, and John had thought this silence had been caused by the detective's fury about being forced to spend their convalescence at home instead of running after the criminal.

"Sherlock, do you want to talk about the Pool?"

"No," answered the younger Holmes, his dark curls flying as he shook his head negatively. "I would rather you tell me about the nightmare you've just had. It would help you to talk about it."

John sighed, knowing it would be useless to insist when his friend was in a stubborn mood.

"It is really of no importance, Sherlock..."

"I beg to differ! Those images rattled your nerves of steel, so conclusion: they were quite frightening, and thus of importance."

"You never give up, do you?"

"Why should I?"

_Always, always, always the sun._

That last comment earned a chuckle from John Watson, and then his expression turned serious as he fiddled with a fold of bed sheet. Sherlock waited patiently until his friend spoke again:

"It happened in the province of... Oh, never mind, the name won't help you locating the place on a map and I don't know the correct pronunciation, anyway. It was in desert country, just before some mountains and information came that rebels were lurking about in the area, so a few men of my unit were sent on a simple reconnaissance mission in a village. Of course, as a doctor, I was to accompany them. We thought the village was way too small to hide rebels, but it turned out they were actually there; they were heavy-armed and extremely resolute in gaining their share of enemies' blood. We were outnumbered, a real butchery and, while I was tending to a wounded soldier, I was shot from behind and the bullet shattered my left collarbone."

"Shooting a man in the back... how courageous," muttered Sherlock.

"Enemies grabbed me and I must have lost consciousness for a minute, because the next thing I know I was kneeling on the ground with two men holding my arms as if they wanted to torn me apart... The pain was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the horrible scene displayed before my eyes: the unit was lost and the rebels were killing my comrades one after another! The wounded pleaded for mercy, some of them begged me to help them and I struggled to break free, but to no avail. I had to watch it, Sherlock. I... I had to look at my friends being murdered and I couldn't do a thing. I yelled, I screamed, I even insulted the rebels and one of my captors punched my wounded shoulder to keep me quiet. The feeling of powerlessness was terrible: being so close, wanting to help those poor boys but being unable to do it... I thought I was going mad from the pain, in both body and soul."

"_The anger of the chained Samson,__"_ thought the detective.

"The last soldier had been murdered and one of the rebels was coming for me with a Jezail gun and a horrible smile on his face; he looked like the guy in charge but one of my captors suddenly started to talk very animatedly... apparently, the badge sewn on my uniform's vest had drawn his attention."

"He recognized the rod of Asclepius?"

"How did you...?"

"Elementary, my dear John: this ancient Greek symbol is internationally known as a symbol of healing, and I have learned from Mycroft's file that it figures on the RAMC's insignia."

John sighed, and then he nodded: "I should have known... Well, yes, the man realized I was in the medical field and a doctor is always useful, even as a prisoner. So my captor started arguing with the leader, pointing frantically at my badge and then at some of the rebels who had been wounded in the battle, back and forth. He was probably trying to keep me alive so I'd heal their wounded. But the leader was clearly frustrated to be deprived of a prize and he shouted like crazy. My captors hauled me on my feet and I almost passed out from the pain; the leader tried to grab my hair but it was slippery from blood and sweat, so he lost his grip and somehow I managed to... head-butt him."

"Well done!" exclaimed Sherlock.

_There's always the sun._

_Mmm, There's always the sun._

"Believe me I truly don't know how it happened... A stroke of luck, that's all, but my forehead had connected with his nose. He started to yell like a madman, holding his bloodied face with both hands and one of my captors kicked me in the right leg to make me kneel again. The other one twisted my arms in the back and I screamed out in pain. My only consolation was that I would faint in a few seconds so I wouldn't feel whatever they had planned to do to me, and then salvation came in the forms of two RAF Tornado GR4 planes. They shot their missiles and the world went up in flames. The last thing I saw was the Jezail gun broken in half and flying in the air like a mad helicopter's blade... and then nothing."

Sherlock gently laid his hand on John's good shoulder and squeezed it gently, inwardly thanking the higher powers who had saved the life of his friend on that fateful day. What would have become of Sherlock Holmes, if Doctor Watson had been killed in action in a remote part of Afghanistan? The answer was simple: the detective would have remained in his cold, lonely world, because the sun would never have barged in his life.

_Always, always, always the sun._

TBC...


	3. Always, always, always the sun

**Disclaimer:** same as chapter 1.

**Author's notes:**

- Sorry about the lack of updates... I had to study hard and work overtime in the office right after summer vacation; now I have to study for the final exam!

- Some details about John's experience in Afghanistan come from the story "A study in scarlet" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859 – 1930).

- Sherlock alludes to the play "Hamlet", act V, scene 1, written between 1599 and 1601 by William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616).

- Georges Courteline (1858 – 1929) was a French dramatist and novelist, known for his sarcastic sense of humour.

- Hypnos was the Ancient Greek god of sleep (from Wikipedia).

* * *

**Chapter 3: Always, always, always the sun**

"So, you avoided capture thanks to the air strike. Were you rescued right after that?" asked Sherlock.

"Actually, I wasn't. I remember waking up amongst smoke and debris; surrounded by corpses so hideously deformed by fire you could hardly believe they were once human beings. The air was irrespirable and it was my coughing that had brought me back from unconsciousness, the hacking of my lungs sending shooting pains to my wounded shoulder. I was so dizzy I could barely stand, and the only thing that came to my mind was: _"Get out of here, get out of here…"_

Sherlock's firm lips trembled for a second at the thought of his friend, wounded and disoriented, stumbling out of a battlefield without any help. Courageous, resourceful John who had witnessed horrors beyond the imagination… and some people actually thought he was an easy prey because of his shorter frame and his kindness. Some people could win the World's Stupidest Persons Trophy ten times in a row!

"I don't even know how I got away from this mess… I found myself walking in the desert, shoulder aching so bad it felt like my body has been torn in two and God, was I thirsty! I could think only of a glass of water with a red-and-white drinking straw poking out of ice cubes and a few mint leaves floating on the surface. Silly, huh? A survivor would give prayers of thanks for escaping with his life, or being obsessed with reuniting with his loved ones, but I got stuck with this idea blocking my mind. The sun was out again and it felt like being beaten from head to toes with red-hot pokers, and to add to my torments predators trailed me."

"More enemies?"

"No, it was a pack of wild dogs. They act like wolves but they are smaller and thinner. A soldier from Arizona told me once they looked like coyotes. Wild dogs are usually scavengers, but they don't mind having a go at a living prey – especially when it is isolated and injured. I still had my handgun but I couldn't use it because shooting in the desert would have been a sure way to betray my position and get captured by hostiles. But the wild dogs kept on following me and in the end, one of them got bold and attacked; I had to smash its skull with a rock. A revolting thing to do but I truly didn't have any choice. The pack feasted on their fallen comrade and it gave me time to escape again. I walked like a zombie, obsessed by the image of a cold drink but somehow, I managed to find the general direction of our base camp. Night came and I found shelter in a large group of rocks before passing out. I woke up to gunfire sounds; imagine my surprise when I realize the rocks were overlooking a dirt road, where a group of American soldiers was being ambushed by rebels! Apparently it was a dawn patrol and enemies had used a homemade road mine to bust the Humvee before firing at the men… And, by a horrible twist of fate, the rebels had been hiding in the same rocks sheltering me. Much later I realized they must have missed my presence by fifty yards or so, too busy with their ambushing plan to look twice at whatever may have been lying amongst those rocks."

"_And in this case it was an injured, unconscious British soldier. Paradoxically, John's wounded state saved his life instead of making him an easy prey. He hasn't moved a finger while unconscious and he was camouflaged by a blanket of dirt and grime, that's the reason why the hostiles haven't noticed him. But it has been a close call, very close indeed!"_ thought the detective. Again, he wondered at the miraculous line of events that had brought John Watson in his life.

"And then, what did you do?"

"I… Well, I drew my weapon and shot at the rebels."

The detective's pale eyes widened in disbelief!

"Do my excellent ears deceive me? Do you mean to say that you came to the rescue of ambushed American soldiers all by yourself, while being wounded and in dire need for help?"

The blond-haired man fidgeted with a corner of his blanket, feeling very uneasy. He was certain Sherlock wouldn't approve of his illogical decision to engage combat: "It sounds ridiculous, I know, but... Yes, that's what I did. I couldn't let those soldiers being slaughtered like my friends, Sherlock, I just couldn't! I still had enough strength to press on my handgun's trigger and shoot at random, to create a diversion that would help the Americans. The rebels certainly didn't expect to be attacked from the flank and they were confused for a few seconds just before shooting at me – but it was too late, the Americans returned fire and within seconds, the fighting was over. A bullet had grazed my arm and I collapsed amongst the rocks again, certain this was the end. The last thing I saw before loosing consciousness were the wide blue eyes of an American soldier, staring down at me... I guess he would never have imagined having to rescue a shot-to-pieces rescuer."

Sherlock brushed his hand against the doctor's in an unconscious gesture of comfort. _Poor John_.

"What I don't understand is why the British army's rescue team hasn't picked you up in the battlefield, instead of letting you wandering in the desert. Were there no intelligent officers around, apart from you?"

"Sherlock, no one thought there could be any survivors after the downpour the Tornadoes had fired in the area so no rescue teams had been sent. The Americans checked on my dog tags and drove me to their base camp, and my presence caused quite a ruckus! I remember waking up while being carried to the medical tent and the stupefied faces hovering over me… they all looked as if I had fallen from the Moon. But I was in sad shape: broken collarbone, severe dehydration, infected wounds, shell shock and on top of everything else, I developed typhoid fever. That prompted my rapid evacuation to Kandahar; the G.I. handed me over to the British Army but the RAMC doctors despaired about my case. Finally, after two months the fever abated and I was sent home with a shower of medals, a pension and the order to keep quiet about my miraculous survival."

"Why?"

"The official statement was that the rebels killed all the men, overlooking the fact that the Tornadoes obliterated the whole area without making any distinction between friends or foes. The presence of a survivor would raise embarrassing questions... The higher powers feared an outraged reaction from the soldiers' families, that's why I've been sworn to secrecy before being honourably discharged from the Army on medical grounds. I felt like betraying my dead friends, but... I was too broken as a soldier and a surgeon; I knew I couldn't remain in the Army and the only way to return to civil life was to remain silent about what had happened. I settled down in London and muddled along therapy sessions, loneliness and boredom until I met you."

Silence fell between the two men, interrupted only by the soft _"tick tock"_ of John's watch resting on the bedside table, next to the emptied glass, and the faint humming of the refrigerator downstairs, in the kitchen. Sherlock was still seated on the bed, his hands under his chin and his fingers pressed against one another, his favourite position while thinking hard – and his thoughts were getting darker by the minute, full of resentment towards his brother. No wonder why Mycroft had pressed him to read the confidential army file; he had wanted Sherlock to spy on his friend, to know if John was writing a secret book about Afghanistan as part of his therapy – since he was too honourable a man to post this kind of information on his blog. Mycroft had figured out Sherlock borrowed his flatmate's laptop from time to time and, in the name of "national security", would have pressed his sibling to report any dangerous writings and destroy them behind John's back. Mycroft had offered money to John for information about Sherlock; he wouldn't have any scruples to blackmail his brother to spy on John.

"_I wonder how long I would have to stay in jail if I __gave the British unofficial government a black eye?"_ thought Sherlock, his pales eyes hardening like precious stones.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" asked John, his voice full of concern for his friend.

_There's always the sun._

_Mmm, there's always the sun._

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. I was just thinking about that you have just told me. No wonder you're having a difficult time with your war experience; I can't imagine what must have been the worst: the horrid deaths of your men or having to deal with a high-ranking hypocrisy during your recovery at Kandahar. I suppose remembering graded hush-ups prompted your most recent nightmare?"

"No... The dream I've just had was so stupid, I feel ridiculous for having screamed because of it."

"It hurt you, John. And I can see it is still distressing you. I fail to see the ridicule here."

The ex-army doctor felt a blush had indeed spread on his cheeks and he thought for a brief instant that the dim light would hide it, and then he mentally kicked himself: Sherlock had good eyesight so denying the dream was still upsetting him was useless!

"I was dreaming about reliving the battle, Sherlock, except that... when the hostiles captured me, they suddenly vanished and I found myself staring at the 221B front door. I was dressed in fatigues, covered with grime and sweat, but I turned about and no one in the street was paying any attention to me! I'm not sure, but I think Lestrade was standing on the sidewalk, calmly talking to Donovan like nothing had happened."

"_Dreaming about Donovan would make any sane man scream in terror," _thought a sardonic detective.

"I opened the door and entered but... our house had been turned into a slaughterhouse. There was blood everywhere, on the walls, on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson was lying on the ground, her prized tea cups in pieces next to her body. I tried to revive her but it was too late, it broke my heart. Then I climbed the stairs calling out for you, only to meet face-to-face with the Afghan warlord. He was still holding his Jezail gun and standing in our living room as if he owned the place. He was covered with blood and laughing and yelling in Pashtu, and then he pointed his finger towards the fireplace and... Oh Sherlock, it is an awful thing to say, but... Your severed head was resting on the mantelpiece. Your eyes opened and you said my name, begging me to help you and I ran towards you, but the warlord held me back and... And then I woke up, thankfully."

The reminiscence of the nightmare made John shiver in spite of the blankets covering his bed: "God, it was horrible."

"It upset you to imagine me as a possible Yorick character?" asked Sherlock on a light tone.

"Yes, and it is not a reason to make fun of me, Mr. Holmes."

"I would never do that. It just happens that "Yorick" is the name I gave to the skull: _"__Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!"_ Mind you, I am not eager to step in Yorick's shoes even if his feet have been lost a long time ago, so there's little chance I'll replace him as adornment to our mantelpiece."

"And what role do I play in the theatre of your life, Sherlock?"

"You are Horatio, of course!" _"And my sun,"_ added the detective inwardly.

_Always, always, always the sun._

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle lightly at the delighted expression on his friend's face. Good old John, what a big heart was beating inside this war-scarred chest. With his loyalty, his supportive and rational character, had he been an actor John would be cast as Horatio on the spot. After that dreadful experience at the Pool, Sherlock had considered asking the doctor to run away from London before he would be hurt again by Moriarty, but that preposterous idea had been dismissed as soon as it had formed inside his powerful brains. It would be illogical to send John away since distance wouldn't guarantee his safety. At least, in London, John benefited from both Mycroft's and Lestrade's protection, and from Sherlock's extreme vigilance. Besides, the detective couldn't bear the idea of returning to his cold, lonely existence, renouncing to the sun's presence because of a megalomaniac enemy. It was too late; Sherlock had grown used to warmth and light in his life, something Moriarty was sick of envy about while perfectly knowing he would never reach it.

And John was not a man to be frightened lightly. His Afghanistan experience may have torn him apart but it certainly hadn't shattered his courage. The doctor would never have accepted to flee the city just to save his own life. John was a soldier to the core, and a true believer of that sacred motto: never leave anyone behind.

No, his friend was safer at 221 B Baker Street, watched over by police officers, CCTV cameras (used by shadowy people) and the eagle eyes of the world's only consulting detective. However, the frustrating problem of those awful dreams plaguing John's nights remained and that was something that couldn't be solved by deductions or bullet holes in the wall.

The doctor shivered again under the bedding, making Sherlock frown. John should be warm enough with sleep clothes and blankets, so cold could be ruled out as a cause for shudder. And then, the only logical conclusion sprang into Sherlock's mind. _Oh, of course_.

John was still upset from the dream of his murdered friend and landlady, still fresh in his memory; it was rattling his nerves and making his heart beat too fast. In the same time, he was angry at himself for not being able to calm down, judging by the way he was absently scratching on the hard surface of his wrist cast. John was a former soldier, used to overcome any given stressful situation but the haunting images were too strong for his military training, making him feel dizzy and disoriented.

Sherlock didn't waste time to take a decision: desperate times called for desperate measures.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Scoot over, will you?"

"What?"

Before the doctor could comprehend what he was doing, Sherlock had promptly swung his long legs on the bed, lying on top of the covers and gathering his friend in his arms, bundling John in blankets and cradling him. The blond man's eyes widened as he found himself folded into Sherlock's embrace; never, not in a million years, would have he thought the misanthropic detective would actually reach out, and hug someone in distress because of something as mundane as a nightmare.

"Sherlock! But what are you...?"

"Hush, my dear John. If you raise your voice again, you'll succeed in awakening Mrs. Hudson. 'Tis a wonder she hasn't climbed the stairs yet, after all the racket you've made recently!"

"But..."

"Worry not, I don't intent to jump on your bones, therefore your virtue is safe. I happen to know about social customs even if I don't practise them often, and holding an upset person is the best way to calm said person, bringing reassurance and/or a sense of security. Since you are still shaken from this dream – and don't bother denying it, John, you are trembling – I figured a close presence nearby you will do the trick in chasing away those dark thoughts mulling inside your brains, and hopefully give you a good rest."

John opened his mouth to protest, to tell Sherlock that he didn't need to be coddled like a crying child, but no words could pass his lips. The fact was, he was grateful for his friend's gesture. John had spent fifteen years in the army and he had had his share of tight-spot situations, hiding inside ruined buildings as bombs flew above or crouching in the mud, not daring to move a muscle while enemies lurked too close for comfort. And, during those fearful times, he had always offered reassurance to the injured – or the scared – with a stroke of a brow, a gentle smile or by squeezing a shoulder, giving a bit of cheer under fire. Lots of soldiers have been grateful for his kindness but the idea to comfort the doctor had never crossed their minds – and after John had returned to civil life, no one had been here for him. His parents were dead, he had no female companion and permanently-drunk Harry was too fascinated by her own problems to pay attention to her brother's distress. Nobody had ever reached out a helping hand towards John, until he had crossed paths with a one-of-a-kind detective.

A few minutes of silence ticked away on the bedside table, and then Sherlock felt blanket-bundled John relaxing against his side, the tremors fading away. A quick glance confirmed the eyelids covering the dark blue orbs were slowly closing, a testimony that his friend was feeling sleepy again. John let his head rest against the detective's long neck and sighed deeply, indeed finding reassurance in the embrace which did a marvellous job in chasing the horrid images away. Sherlock had a small smile; it wouldn't be long now before Hypnos would claim the ex-army surgeon again.

"Fraternity of the humble; fraternity of the simple; fraternity of the soldier," suddenly said John in a soft voice.

"What is it, John?"

"It's the first line of a short story by Georges Courteline, a French dramatist; a soldier spends the night helping his drunken buddy to go to bed. It isn't easy since the guy is noisy, sick and very demanding. But the soldier always gets up to help his friend, no matter how many times he is disturbed from getting rest himself. The drunkard is grateful, though, since he knows he would be punished by the corporal-sergeant if not for his friend's assistance. This story is a description of the endless support of one man to another, out of friendship."

"You can hardly be described as a drunkard, John, and I've never been a soldier."

"The fraternity is the same."

Sherlock tightened his grip for a few seconds, making John smile, and then his heavy eyelids closed and he succumbed to sleep, warm under the blankets and secure in his friend's embrace. The detective remained awake, immobile as a statue, his chiselled features betraying no emotion but his clear blue eyes were shining more intensely, as if annoying moisture had formed at the corners and was threatening to spill on his marble-like cheeks in the form of salty droplets.

How John could... _dared_... to make him feel (a bit more) human again? How could he so easily awaken feelings the detective had buried deep down inside him for so long? Feelings that even Sherlock had forgotten about them?

But then again, who could fight the power of the sun?

_There's always the sun._

No one; in fact, only a fool could imagine triumphing over the Milky Way's brightest star.

_Mmm, __there's always the sun._

Sherlock sighed, basking in the warmth he felt on his side. John was sleeping peacefully in his arms, quietness had returned in the house located number 221 B of Baker Street; the moon followed her course in the sky, stars gave an impression of movement, and the younger Holmes found out in amazement that his thoughts about the Pool Incident weren't as dark as before. He was still resolute in making Moriarty pay for his crimes but useless rage had vanished from his brains, replaced by the familiar presence of logical intelligence which gave him the first clue to capture the criminal mastermind.

_Step one: keep John close._

The sleeping doctor moved his head, resting more comfortably against the detective's shoulder. Sherlock gently pressed his lips on his friend's sun-kissed hair.

_John brings light; __the best weapon to overcome darkness._

Sherlock knew from this minute that he would vanquish Moriarty; no matter the years or the sacrifices, he was certain the consulting criminal would meet his fate at the hands of the consulting detective.

Because Sherlock had a trump card that no one, not even his annoying brother, could take away from him: a true ally. Moriarty could hide behind legions of faceless minions but they would prove a poor protection against the younger Holmes' wrath.

Because Sherlock had someone to fight for; Moriarty only had his oversized navel to keep him company.

Because Sherlock had the sun; Moriarty was rotting in the shadows.

_Always, always, always the sun._

Looking at John gently snoring against his shoulder, Sherlock suddenly realised what the term _"bosom friend"_ meant.

As on clue, inside his mind, Hugh Cornwell started singing the last part of the song:

_There's always the sun._

_T__here's always the sun._

_Always, always, always the sun._

_There's always the sun._

_Mmm, t__here's always the sun._

_Always, always, always the sun._

_Always __the sun..._

_Always, always, always the sun._

_There's always the sun._

_Mmm, t__here's always the sun._

_Always, always, always the sun._

THE END!


End file.
